


Uncharacteristically Angry

by sherlocked221



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Monkee night of random fun ends pretty badly, Micky's stuck being the leader, Peter's half fainting , Davy tries to be consoling and Mike becomes uncharacteristically angry with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dented Unicycle

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter is sort of inspired by when Mike actually punched that hotel wall (like the fact that he did because he was angry is the only connection between the two but...)  
> I adore the sort of strong man becoming vulnerable thing so this is a result of it.
> 
> BTW, I'd love some fanart for this fic! So if you can, draw some for me and let me know about it. Thanks!

In removing the dented unicycle and turning Mike’s limp body onto it’s back, his friends were able to see the damage done.

Peter stumbled backwards, grasping onto Micky’s arm to stop himself from fainting. Micky was at the front of the crowd and knelt by Mike’s side, trying to do anything to get him awake. Davy was frozen. He couldn’t move closer to the scene nor step away in fear that the others might think he didn’t care.

“Mike, Mike. Babe please get up.” Micky begged with one hand shaking Mike’s leg, the other attached to Peter. He was so desperate to wake the tallest member of the group because he was usually the sensible one, the ideas one, the more mature one out of the four. Without him, the rest were lost in difficult situations and that became a bigger problem when Davy spotted red, soaking through the sleeve of Mike’s favourite light pink shirt. He tapped Micky cautiously on the shoulder, his wide eyes guiding his friend’s to the scrape of blood both on the carpet and on Mike’s arm. Once Micky had noticed it, it was seconds later that his hand was tugged hard by Peter as the blond flopped back onto the chair, unable to stand on his suddenly weak legs.

“W…what is that?” Peter stammered, his heart pounding, breathing laboured and cheeks drained of colour. Davy wanted to turn around and help the blond band member but his priority lay with the dark haired one laying, lifeless in front of them.

“He’s got a cut on his arm, Pete. It’s bad. Can you go and get a bowl of hot water with a cloth please.” Micky replied looking as pale as the man sitting behind him. It was a wonder how he could ignore the dizzy sick feeling in his chest to pick up the injured limb and pull off his stained shirt so it was in the open. Peter drew himself up and stumbled away to the kitchen as the injury was bared and the blood was visible on his friend’s pale skin. The cut was huge, not so deep and not bleeding as much as it had before (thank god.) Because it was not actually major, Micky wasn’t sure whether he should call a doctor or wait until the smarter band member woke up and could decide for himself. A horrible thought then crossed his mind. What if his woolly hat wearing, father figure friend didn’t wake up? At that thought, he found himself feeling worse than before.

He, finally, got up off his knees and walked around to crouch by Mike’s head, slipping his hands under the limp man’s back. He got Davy to take Mike’s leg and with a bit of strength (and a whole lot of love) they got him up on the sofa where his eyes began to flicker open. A pained expression crossed his face and with his good arm reached up to touch the place where the floor had impacted his head. His brown eyes adjusted to see three men staring down at him, worried.

“What the hell happened?” He mumbled, trying to angle his thumping head out of the way of the light; it was far too much for someone who’d been knocked out to see.

“Um… you… we were all playing on the unicycles and… babe, you fell off. We didn’t know what to do.” Davy admitted, shyly once he got the confidence to get closer to his friend. It was funny how the sight of blood hadn’t affected him before and yet, now, he feared getting so close to it. He surmised that, because it was a friend from which the blood came, he was worried about hurting him. Mike’s brow furrowed in pain once again when he’d moved and snagged his bad arm against a pillow.

“Why does my arm hurt?” He groaned, shuffling rigidly when Peter returned to the scene and wetted the wash cloth he had hung between his index and middle fingers. Micky took it and softly dabbed the damp towel around the gash, making Mike suck in a long, harsh breath.

“We don’t know how it happened… we didn’t see it properly.” Peter muttered, still feeling weak and keeping his gaze to one side. Mike would’ve smiled at the sound of Peter’s gentle voice had he not been in so much pain; it had a sort of calming effect on him as he lay there, powerless, his cut aching even after Micky had stopped cleaning it. It was then that he finally lifted up his pounding head and saw the tear in his skin. No wonder Peter was looking so pale, the cut was pretty nasty and boy did it hurt like hell. Suddenly, Mike noticed, fully, that the blond member of his group was practically swaying, looking sick.

“Wait, are you all ok? Did anything happen to you?” He exclaimed, reaching out for Peter’s hand.

“No, we’re ok,” Peter’s voice filled his head again, reassuringly and the soft feel of his hand wrapped around his own made Mike lie back down, “Leave everything to us.”

All in all, his friends were not bad at taking over when they needed to, he concluded.


	2. Dented Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day after the incident, Mike comes back from the doctors, arm bandaged where he’d cut it pretty bad and a warning not to play his guitar for a while until it healed up. He does not take the advice well.

When Mike got mad, he really got mad. His friends had not seen the full extent of what he could do when pushed; after all, they’d only really seen the smooth, cool man that was maybe a bit shy but didn’t let it get in his way for anything.

But what really ended up pushing him to get angry was the afternoon he got back from the doctors, arm bandaged where he’d cut it pretty bad and a warning not to play his guitar for a while until it healed up.

The Pad he shared with the other Monkees was deserted when he walked through the door, thankfully, meaning he didn’t have to explain the solemn look on his face or frustration in his dark eyes. It was obvious, especially to those he lived with, that he was not ok but they didn’t have to see that. Not yet at least. For now, he kicked the front door shut behind him, maybe a little harder than he anticipated, and pulled off the first two buttons of his shirt. Funny how he’d never felt so confined in the blue 8 buttoned blouse, like the thin fabric encased him in a soft prison. He wanted badly to rip it off and toss it across the room with as much force as he could.  Then again, it was part of the band’s image and his friends might never forgive him if they had to fork out more money to get another one so, he calmed himself. Deep breaths and the prospect of curling up in his bed soon got him from the couch to the stage where his beige Gretsch guitar sat, mocking him. Whenever he felt like this all he wanted to do would be to sit down somewhere quiet and fill the room from floor to ceiling with his favourite songs, to forget everything by wrapping himself in the sound of music so he couldn’t hear his own thoughts.

And he couldn’t even do that.

Furious, he picked up his guitar, wincing as the weight dragged heavily on his bad arm and sat on the raised platform ready to play. He assumed, with the bulk of the instrument resting on his lap, the stress on his injury would be minimal. That was, until he started to play. To extend and retract his arm to get his fingers in place and hold down the right strings, it was painful. Each time he had to hold on longer, his eyes closed tightly so he could manage it and his whole body tensed. The more he played, the more it hurt and the more frustrated he got until he seriously considered smashing the guitar on the floor. The sound it would make, the power it would give him, the rage it would let out but he stopped himself, again, and placed the guitar to one side. As he leapt up, a tightness between his shoulders begged him to let out something, not the breath he’s been holding.

That’s when his good arm threw a punch at the soft part of the wall (there was a bit plastered over after one of the usual Monkee antics had gotten a little out of hand. All four vowed after that day to keep fire, unicycles and Davy’s head far away from each other.) His fist went straight through it like a hot knife through butter only with more pain and there may not have been as much regret as he’d expected until he turned around and standing in the back doorway, Davy stared, wide-eyed at him. A wash of shame came over Mike’s body as he stood up fully, ignoring the throbbing in his once good hand, and looked squarely into his shorter friend’s brown eyes. There was a long moment of silence as they both tried to think of what to say, Mike wondering how he could explain his outburst, Davy trying to make his own sense of what he’d just seen.

“What the hell was that?” Davy eventually burst out, having to stop himself from swearing. Mike shrugged his shoulders and half drew in a breath. All of a sudden, tears caught in the back of his throat. If there was one thing he was not going to do in front of his friend, it was cry. He never cried unless it was a joke, that was it. Attempting to shake off the stupid emotions building up inside him, he perched on the back of the couch and idly played with his bandage.

“Where’s Pete and Micky?” He manged, his voice catching once or twice but all in all, he thought he sounded normal. Yet Davy wasn’t having it. He strode over to Mike and stood right in front of him, a look on his face crossed between unconvinced and worry. Mike couldn’t meet his caring gaze as he could feel tears welling in his eyes. To comfort himself, he ran through the lyrics of Nine Times Blue in his head, keeping his flushed face away from his friend’s stare and swallowed again and again.

“Mike, you just punched a hole in the fucking wall and you think we’re going to have a normal conversation? You must be joking!” Davy exclaimed. Even with such a short stature, he was strong enough to grasp onto the taller man’s shoulders- mindful of Mike’s bandage- and force him to make eye contact. He then could see the redness around Mike’s eyes, the colour draining from his cheeks, the way his chest was stuttering as he breathed irregular breaths and the actual fear of showing vulnerability in his face. Davy softened his grip slightly but refused to let go.

“Are they gonna come back soon? Mick and Pete, I mean?” Mike tried again only, this time, there was no way to hide anything. While he wasn’t physically sobbing, his voice sure did sound close to it and he could hear it so obviously. It infuriated him further.

“They’re out. Don’t worry, they’ll be a while coming back. Tell me what’s wrong, please.” Davy was practically whining at his friend with worry, pure concern filling his mind, his thumbs rubbing just under Mike’s elbows now, hoping it would comfort him enough to tell him everything. Inside, Mike was panicking. His whole body was under immense strain to keep himself from crying while pain in both his arms made that more difficult and he’d finished Nine Times Blue twice over so he was running through his favourite songs sung by each of his friends. Still, none of it kept one tiny droplet of salty water get caught in his lashes.

_Oh, I could hide ‘neath the wings, do do do do, hm hm hm_

“I went to the doctors ‘bout my arm and… can’t play… for a bit.” He mumbled, feeling as through that wasn’t it. Music and the guitar was his whole life and it wasn’t like he wasn’t ever going to be able to do that again. Davy was seemed as unsure as Mike did about the reason. He scanned the taller man’s face, waiting for the rest of the explanation that ended up not coming.

“Mike, that can’t be the only reason, babe.” He crooned, stepping inches closer to Mike and wrapping his small arms around his waist. This felt oddly familiar, like they did this sort of thing, were this close all the time but both men knew it was different. It was in that moment with that sensation running through Mike that told him, if there was anyone to lose it in front of, it would be Davy, the taller man let a stream of tears fall down his cheeks and he began to sob. While there was the fact that allowing everything to go felt fantastic, shame like no other he’d felt before loomed over him. He could almost feel Davy’s gaze piercing his cool exterior and it hurt worse than keeping the tears in, his throbbing hand and his injury put together. He found himself, stupidly, crying harder at the thought.

“Mike, Oh babe, I’m so sorry. I know you don’t want me to see this but…” Davy didn’t know where he was going with that. He couldn’t be sorrier for trying to help his friend, for trying to be there when Mike obviously didn’t want it but how could he make it up to him. With his arms already around his taller friend, he found it natural to get in even closer and rest his head on his shoulder. Mike had hugged him a few times like this before. Sometimes it was because of a girl, other times he missed his family, a few times because he missed Micky or Peter when they’d gone to see theirs. He now understood what it must feel like to be on the giving end of something a little more important than that.

“Is there anything I can do, Mike? I can’t bare seeing you in this state. It’s not natural, man. You’re meant to be the one consoling me or something.” He chuckled lightly, hoping a bit of a comical break would ease the tense sick feeling in seeing someone usually so confident and strong in a vulnerable position.

“Don’t let go.”


End file.
